


The Stiles Stilinski’s Multiverse Orphanage

by Sundiver



Series: Sundiver's Steter Week 2018 [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Steter Week, Steter Week 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 07:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15407892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sundiver/pseuds/Sundiver
Summary: Sunday – Peter Hale. Monday – Deucalion Blackwood. Tuesday – Chris Argent. Wednesday – Ennis Black. Thursday – Derek Hale. Friday – Jordan Parish. Saturday – Ivan Hale (Derek’s father).





	The Stiles Stilinski’s Multiverse Orphanage

**Author's Note:**

> Day 3 of Steter week. Today’s prompt: Soulmates/Mates  
> Guys, I have to post this tonight, because I won’t be able to do it tomorrow – annoying IRL stuff… Technically, it’s already past midnight on 24 of July here, so I hope you’ll give me some leeway on this.  
> Okay, I have to admit – I plan this story to be the first/opening part of a series. I don’t know if I’m going to get back to this pairing at the end of it, to close the ‘circle’, but all pairings above will have their stories written at some point in the future. I’m kind of really invested in this one, but the next installments will have to wait a bit for the right mood to strike, cos the next two characters – Monday and Tuesday - have a sort of an intricate backstory and I want to do them justice.  
> Funny thing, when I wrote this story I hadn’t have Internet and couldn’t double-check the prompts. Somehow the prompt that had stuck in my head was ‘coffee shop/tattoo parlor’ instead of ‘florist shop/tattoo parlor’. I had to write another story that takes place in a tattoo parlor for that prompt. This goes for the prompt ‘soul mates’. Kind of fitting, considering – soul mates galore here! 
> 
> One last thing. This is by no means a slight toward the cultural diversity or insult to the ethnic heritage of people with Polish descent, but I won’t be using the name “Mieczysław” in my stories. I do my editing and all-and-all reading on my Kindle devices (#3 Touch and II Fire) via the Text-To-Speech option. Having the TTS of my Kindle or my phone try to pronounce ‘Mieczysław’ properly is incredibly frustrating and detracts a great deal from the whole story. It comes out like “Mikzislau” with an annoying Dracula-like Romanian accent. I know the name I’m using for Stiles is not spelled canonically, but by trial and error I had found the closest approximation to the correct pronunciation of the name when loaded into the TTS engine. So, I will be using that instead. Since I’m not making any puns about how other people have trouble reading Stiles’ real name, or any of my characters try and fail to pronounce it, I think the version I use is acceptable. I chose to transcribe rather than to transliterate.  
> There is something else as well. I have no idea of the legal legislation requirement about naming a child in the U.S., and I’m sorry to say, I haven’t had the time to research it, so I extrapolated from the legislation set in my own country. Where I live, children cannot have their written name contain symbols from a foreign alphabet. So the “ł” symbol wouldn’t be allowed in a birth certificate or any legal documents. Also, I have no idea why is the letter ‘w’ – the pronunciation of ‘w’ varies - corresponding to the sound that is clearly written with a ‘v’. Sorry, I’m rambling. The point is, I’m using different spelling for Stiles’ real name.  
> I apologize if someone finds it offensive or disrespectful, and hope this won’t deter readers from my stories.  
> This work is beta-read by wonderful and amazing Blinc43, who not only did an amazing job, but volunteered her time to help me with my English. She has a patience of a saint – if you ask me – to put up with my hectic writing style, runaway sentences, and to top that she’s explaining everything! Blinc43, you rock!  
> Oh, I have tumblr now!  
> http://sundiver4steter.tumblr.com/

According to Friday, there was nothing to worry about. In a manner, Friday said, the price was already paid in full by the rest. But Sunday couldn’t help but feel guilty about it. He had been waiting for the other shoe to drop for a while now. The rest of them, every single one of them, had lost everything and everyone, except him.

Monday assured him they were all incredibly grateful for that. The rest of the guys would never begrudge him having everything, they were _happy_ for him. Moreover, they were _grateful_ to him for sharing it all with them. Not only did they have most of their loved ones back – no matter how different they were under the circumstances – but now they had soul mates! According to Wednesday, this was the price _he_ had paid. In Wednesday’s words, Fate in his world had apparently fucked up somehow. According to him, Fate in every single case of theirs had fucked up, just in different manners – but with him, by activating the Beacon he had given her a chance to fix her mistakes. The soul mates were their compensation for being the Fate’s instrument.

Every one of them had a different soul mate. Considering how different a life each one of them had lived, that was not surprising.

Sunday was worried sometimes what it said about him as a person that every one of them had a soul mate at least eight years older than them. Saturday’s mate was thirty years older. However, said mate was a werewolf, so that shouldn’t matter all that much. Werewolves were different.

Werewolves! Jesus!

Sunday hadn’t known werewolves were a thing. Even now, almost a month after the big reveal, he still had hard time wrapping his mind around it.

Almost everybody, himself included, had a werewolf mate, with the exception of Tuesday and Friday. He wasn’t sure if Friday counted at all, because according to Friday, Jordan Parish was a hell hound.

Hell hounds! Jesus!

Fuck… sometimes – just like now – things become too much for Sunday. He didn’t know how to deal with it all, or what to do. He just knew he had to get somewhere away from his… siblings? Were they siblings at all? Sunday didn’t know what to call them.

He just needed to run away from everything for a while, and his… brothers… understood and didn’t follow, provided he texted at least one of them every hour or so. His brothers were paranoid beyond belief, but that was to be expected.

His options for escape were limited. The hospital was out, for obvious reasons. For the last month, Sunday had managed to see Dad alone - with none of his brothers present - only two times. Most of them spent at least couple of hours a day with the Sheriff, sometimes two or three at a time. When one of them felt particularly down, they would stay longer. Hell, the first time Monday had entered the Sheriff’s hospital room he cried for three hours non-stop and refused to leave the room for two days straight.

Thank God for Friday’s advanced magic and the charms he made them all, otherwise it would have been awkward. So awkward! Especially with the claw marks marring Friday’s face. Friday’s charm hid the scars even when he wore his real face.

But Sunday had the need to run away from his overbearing siblings every so often. He had several options instead of the Preserve, which had been out ever since the first of them showed up. Sunday missed the Preserve. The trees, the wide open space, the untamed nature, and the big tree stump. He missed his special spot the most, but the others were outright horrified when he told them where he would go when he needed to think. Knowing everything that had happened to them now, Sunday was not surprised. So usually he hid in the library, or at the Diner. But today was actually Sunday, so it was Sunday’s turn to be in the coffee shop if he felt like it. It was the day he could wear his real face. So he hid in the coffee shop, and hoped like crazy his soul mate wouldn’t show up today of all days.

Oh, don’t get him wrong, Sunday wanted to meet his soul mate… Correction, Sunday wanted to meet his soul mate _as_ his soul mate. He had met Peter Hale on several occasions already. But today he wanted space, and wherever he went he was bumping either into one of his siblings or into one of _them_. First it was Derek Hale in the Parking lot next to the station. Then it was Ivan Hale at the store. Then it was Ennis Black at the Hospital entrance and Jordan Parish on Dad’s floor when he went to check on him. Then it was Deucalion Blackwood in the library. And finally, he bumped into Chris Argent at the Froyo place on Main, where he decided to hide today, because he didn’t want Peter to confront him. A very married, very much a hunter Chris Argent. God, he pitied Tuesday! Come to think of it, he pitied Saturday as well. One had to deal with Victoria Argent, the other – with Talia Hale. Jesus! And all of them, all of the soul mates, every single one of them, had given him a long, long, piercing and judgmental look. Like it was his fault!

Which, in a manner of speaking it was, but Sunday refused to take credit for THAT! All he wanted when _it_ happened, all he wished for, was for his Dad to wake up, for his Mom not to be dead, not to be alone in the World, to have _someone_! Okay, he wished he had a soul mate, but in the storm of emotions raging in him – he felt so lonely, desolate and bereft – he was _certain_ he hadn’t asked Fate to start gifting people soul mates. People who hadn’t had one. He was sure about Jordan Parish, Derek, Peter and Ivan Hale – they hadn’t had soul mates before his siblings started showing up. He wasn’t sure about Deucalion, Ennis and Chris, but according to the others, the two wolves and the hunter most probably hadn’t either.

Friday and Wednesday tried explaining it to him – the whole _Fate-repairing-the-balance-otherwise-the-multiverce-will-explode_ thing. He didn’t understand even half of it.

His siblings were judging him, he knew. For goodness sake, a month ago he hadn’t known werewolves had even existed, and they had known it for years, dealing with this shit on a daily basis, what do they expect?!

For Sunday to just suddenly accept it all? When it is all dropped on his head - all at once?! Fuck this shit!

So, he was hiding in the Coffee shop, hoping _his_ soul mate would not approach him. That was the whole point of hiding from it all, wasn’t it?

Fate, evidently, was a cruel bitch, and wouldn’t let Sunday enjoy his pity-party.

“Is this seat taken?” a velvety, saccharin sweet voice full of hidden threat and malice enquired.

Peter Hale in the flesh.

Just what Sunday needed right now!

“Yes!” he snapped at the werewolf. “I’m waiting for someone. Leave me alone!”

Peter Hale, however, was unfazed by the outburst and pulled the chair opposite Sunday and sat down.

“Now, now, Stiles, there is no need to be snappish” he said, his voice soothing on the surface not to draw attention. But Sunday could hear what was hiding beneath it. Peter Hale had come for answers and wasn’t going to leave without them.

“I think we need to have a nice, long chat, you and I. Don’t you?”

Fuck Sunday’s life! Peter had called him Stiles. And wasn’t that the cherry on the top of this cluster fuck cake?

“I’m Sunday, not Stiles!” he hissed at the werewolf.

He suddenly was so angry he could hardly breathe. He had to share everything now - his name, his identity, his appearance, his Dad, his few friends, his world, his everything, every fucking aspect of his life! The only thing he had now, that was only his, truly and actually his, was a soul mate who apparently was a colossal dick!

The werewolf was taken aback by Sunday’s outburst, but his eyes narrowed at the fuming teenager and he gave him a long assessing look. Peter Hale kept his mouth shut, but continued studying him, while Sunday tried to calm down. It took him several minutes.

When the werewolf deemed him calmed enough, he simply pushed up his sleeve and showed Sunday his soul mark.

_Miechislav Genim Stilinski, Sunday._

“You have been a very naughty boy, haven’t you?” he asked, his tone again saccharin and menacing.

Sunday stayed silent.

The werewolf tried to wait him out, but after a minute, when it became apparent the teen wouldn’t give him anything, he pulled the sleeve back down and asked.

“Care to explain how the same soul mark appeared on the arms of my brother in law, my nephew, Ennis Black and Deucalion Blackwood? At the same time?” Then he corrected himself “Well, the marks are almost the same but for the last bit. The days of the week are different.”

Sunday kept his mouth shut and gave the werewolf a dark glare, which obviously only amused the Hale. When it became apparent no information would be forthcoming, the wolf tried another question. 

“How about the fact that every Emissary sensed a tremendous shift in the balance? And I mean tremendous, Stiles. It was felt all around the world.” The wolf almost growled the last word, dark and angry.

“Granted, shifts in the right direction, restoring the balance,” he allowed “, but seven shifts. Seven shifts, coming one after the other, one per day, and isn’t it curious the soul marks appearing where no soul marks have been before, with a day added to them? I know of five marks, are there two more, Stiles?”

Sunday’s lips thinned but he said nothing, his focus on the fact he wasn’t Stiles, not any more.

The werewolf tried another tactic.

“How about the timing, Stiles? Just when we were trying to restore the balance with the Emissaries’ ritual and Deucalion’s peace talks, you beat us to it? Nothing to say? But the balance isn’t restored, is it, Stiles? Whatever you did, didn’t work. Not completely.”

Sunday had come in the coffee shop to get away from all this, not to get it all thrown in his face _by his soul mate_.

He jumped up to leave, but Peter Hale – fast as a striking cobra – grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him close to hiss in his face.

“You don’t smell like mate to me, Stiles. Why is that?”

They were drawing attention, but Sunday didn’t care anymore, all he cared about was to get away. He yanked his hand from the wolf’s grasp and stormed out of the coffee shop. He hit the doors and once outside, ran, not caring if the werewolf was following him or not.

He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t sign up to save the world from a supernatural curse outbreak, or from civil war, or from a zombie apocalypse, or from a nuclear disaster. Dad was lying in a coma in the hospital after being shot in the head. No one could tell Sunday if his father would ever wake up or if he _woke_ up what state he would woke up in. Versions of him from parallel universes were walking around, wearing his face and his identity, plotting how to stop the Argents and take the hunters down. He didn’t have a Scott like everybody else to go to. He had no one and nothing, but a day of the week. Sunday. The day he somehow started all this. May be he had lost everything too, like the rest of ‘him’. It was too much. Everything was too much.

Sunday ran through the park, subconsciously picking the deserted areas – he didn’t want to deal with people – he just ran, tears streaming down his face, no direction in mind. He just had to get away from all this for a bit. In an hour or two, he’ll gather his shit together and go back to his life. Like he’s done numerous times before now. Why did today have to be different? Why now? Why Peter? Was it too much to ask for a couple of hours? Was it?

The wolfed-out form of Peter Hale tackled him at the precise moment he was in the underpass, in the gloom of the small tunnel under the walkway that lead to the lake. Full body tackle, claws and fangs out, eyes glowing. They fought for a second or two, the wolf – not particularly careful, but not doing any lasting damage either – just determined to pin down and restrain Sunday until he got his answers. But Sunday was frantic and desperate, at the end of his rope. He kicked the wolf right in the balls, somehow gathered the strength to push him off, and jumped up to run away. A clawed hand shot up and grabbed at his left wrist. Sunday yanked hard, not caring that he was leaving deep claw cuts in his flesh. The claws got loose, but cut the cord of the charm Friday had made for him.

The moment the beads hit the ground they shattered and the magic dispersed.

Sunday looked down at the broken charm in horror.

“No, no, no, no!” he chanted, backing away from the charm.

The werewolf roared at him and jumped on his feet, apparently ready for another go.

Somehow Sunday had the presence of mind to pull out a vile of mountain ash and lock himself in a circle, just in time for a wolfed out, probably feral Peter Hale to hit the barrier.

Sunday couldn’t tear his eyes away from the broken charm.

Their charms were connected. Brake one, brake them all. What had he done?!

His cell phone blared and he somehow managed to pull it out of his pocket. His vision, blurred by the tears he apparently couldn’t stop didn’t allow him to see who exactly was calling. He raised a shaking hand with the phone in it to his ear, and his look shifted from the bracelet to the wolf trying to claw his way through the barrier.

“Sunday!” his own voice exclaimed on the other end of the line, and Sunday almost went into hysterics by the fact his voice sounded so different if recorded or coming out from someone else’s mouth. But that was cut short by the vicious growl and the swipe of a clawed hand at the barrier.

“Are you all right?!” the voice demanded answers. “What happened? Where are you?”

“I’m in the Park, in the Underpass” he managed some semblance of thought hiccupping in the phone. “Peter Hale is here. I think he went feral. I’m in an ash circle. Come get me.”

And wasn’t that the cherry on top of this shit storm? He had to be saved by his what? Brothers? Siblings? Copies? The copies he summoned himself! Did he summon them? Or just provided a convenient safe haven for them?

“All I wanted was for Dad to wake up!” he cried in the phone. He was breaking down completely. “I never asked to be the Fate’s bitch, I never asked to fix the multiverse, I never asked to deal with hunters and werewolves and druids and nematons! I never ask for any of this shit! I never ask to _be_ a ‘safe house’ for orphaned Stilinskis! Why is this happening?”

And he proceeded to cry in full blown hysterics.

***

Peter Hale was not, in fact feral. Not completely, but once they broke the kid’s magic bracelet and his wolf had scented their mate – their very distressed mate – the beast had taken the driver’s seat.

His human side had tried to tell the animal that they were scaring their mate, but the wolf went more and more frantic and agitated – mate hurt, mate in pain, need to reach mate, need to sooth mate, need to get to mate, need to tend to mate, mate, mate, mate – and refused to listen.

Peter was in full agreement, he wanted to get to their mate just as bad as the wolf did, but he was able to rationalize that they were the reason their mate was in distress. Somewhere in the back of his mind Peter was registering all the information pouring out of their mate in his break down, but he would parse through it later.

And then _they_ appeared. Six of them. Identical, yet so, so very different.

The one with the claw marks across his face had his fists encased in lightning, ready to fry Peter at the spot.

The one in the leather jacket was pointing a gun at his head.

The one in the red hoody was carrying a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire.

They were all ready to take him down, yelling at him and his wolf… his wolf snarled at them in confusion. They all smelled like Stiles. ALL of them. But only the boy in the circle smelled like mate.

And then Peter’s eyes zeroed on the soul mark of the one in the graphic t-shirt.

It said “Derek Hale, Thursday”.

Six of them, and one in the circle. Seven. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Seven days of the week. Seven shifts in the balance. Seven versions of Stiles. And only one scent of mate. Multiverse.

Things were becoming clearer. His wolf reseeded, Peter Hale raised his hands up in a sign of surrender, and backed away, but not too far.

Three of them immediately rushed into the circle and grabbed Peter’s mate into a crushing hug. What had the boy said? I’m Sunday, not Stiles? It didn’t matter.

“He’s my mate.” The werewolf challenged the other three, still pointing weapons at him. “I’m not giving him up.”

His entire life he had dreamt about having a mate. Soul mates were rare, very rare, and he was born without one. Only one member in his pack had a soul mate – his niece Cora. If Fate chose to grant him one, no matter how late in life, no matter he wasn’t _born_ with him, _for_ him… Well, Peter Hale was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“No one asked you to, asshole!” one of his - Jesus, what the Hell were they, his brothers in law? - barked. “But you’ve done enough damage for one day, so back the fuck off!”

Peter gave the boy a wolfish smile to hide his bafflement. Never show weakness to strangers.

“Mouthy, mouthy” he chided, but backed away one more step.

The one with the gun rolled his eyes and put the weapon away.

“Once a Creeper Wolf, always a Creeper Wolf. Poor Sunday.” Then he put his hand on his scar-faced copy’s shoulder.

“Come on, Friday, let go” he pushed gently, but Friday’s eyes were pure ice.

“You see the scars on my face, Peter?” he asked nonchalantly, conversationally, almost friendly, and his tone sent shivers down the wolf’s spine. If it was up to Friday, Peter Hale was a dead man, and the kid had the power to do it too.

“I gave you those, huh?” he asked, nodding at the scars and tried to replicate the malice in the kid’s voice.

Friday gave him a chilling smile.

“Aren’t you the clever one?” he said which made another four versions of him – Jesus, this was insane! - burst into laughter.

The kid in red hoody sniggered.

“The irony – it burns!” Apparently it was some sort of inside joke of their alternative interactions.

“Let’s take Sunday to Dad” the kid in the plaid shirt prodded.

“I’m coming with you” Peter interjected.

“Of course you are!” Friday snapped at him. “Until I repair the charms and clear our scents off you, the rest of the fur-balls will smell their mates on you, moron! For goodness sake, they are probably running around town trying to track us down right now! Why did you have to break the bracelet?”

“Why did you have to link the charms in the first place?” the kid with the graphic tee interjected grumpily.

“Because it’s easier! Do you think I have four days to spare on a bracelet to make all of us individual charms?” Friday snapped at his ... whatever they were.

“Well, look where it got us!” the other kid snapped back and they proceeded to bicker, the rest butting in on one side of the argument or the other, while they led the Peter’s exhausted mate toward the hospital.

Peter followed a couple of steps behind the group. His wolf was wagging his preverbal tail in Peter’s mind and chanting _mate-mate-mate_ in his head. The beast couldn’t wait to be allowed to touch. And so was Peter.

**Author's Note:**

> A.W. With this story I’m breaking all kinds of canonical rules of the “multiverse” sci-fi genre, so in a manner this is self-indulgent. I mean, why the Hell not have the story I want to have. Also, one think that – in my opinion – is simultaneously very interesting to explore, and hard to do, is writing the dynamic between the versions of oneself that would exist if they meet. I’d like to toy with that, and also make a different background and life experiences for the different Styleses and show how it changes their personality. Also – different powers to all of them. As I said – this will be pure self-indulgence.


End file.
